Chapter 22: The Symphony of the Damned
The camp at the edge of the Iron Valleys didn't look like a royal army; it looked like a wound that had refused to heal. Ten thousand souls gathered under the banner of the Raven. There were the Highland Tribes, men who followed Alexander because he was the first predator they couldn't kill. There were the Industrial Refugees from Azmareel, who followed him out of a desperate, religious-like hope. And then, there were the Mercenaries, who followed him out of the purest form of respect: Fear of his shadow.
Alexander walked through the rows of flickering campfires. He didn't wear a crown, yet the air parted for him. His Aura Vision showed him a sea of colors—the Dark Reds of vengeance, the Muddied Yellows of greed, and the Pale Blues of those who had nothing left to lose.
He stopped at a fire where a group of young Highland warriors were sharpening their bone-axes. They looked at him, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and adoration.
"Why do you sharpen your steel, boy?" Alexander asked, his voice low, cutting through the crackle of the flames.
The youngest warrior, barely seventeen, stood up. His aura was a Trembling Green. "To kill the Emperor's men, My Lord. For the glory of the Raven."
Alexander stepped into the light, his eyes reflecting the fire like shards of cold glass. "Glory is a lie told by old men to convince young men to die," he said, his words falling like lead weights. "I am not your Lord. I am the man who provides you with a target for your hate. Do not fight for me. Fight because the world tried to bury you, and you are the only ones who can dig your way out."
He turned to the entire camp, his voice suddenly amplifying, carrying a weight that made the very ground vibrate.
"Look at yourselves!" he thundered. "The Empire calls you rats. They call you the 'dregs of the earth.' They think that because they own the gold, they own the air in your lungs."
He pointed toward the distant, glowing fortress of Kastel-Gora, the first gateway to the Capital.
"I do not offer you a kingdom. I do not offer you peace. I offer you the only thing that makes a man truly free: The chance to look your oppressor in the eye before you tear his heart out. If you follow me for gold, you will die poor. If you follow me for fear, you will die a coward. But if you follow me because you are tired of being the nail and want to be the hammer... then tonight, we become a storm!"
A roar erupted—not a cheer, but a guttural, primal scream that shook the black trees. They didn't love him; they recognized him. He was their collective rage given a human form.
[The War Council - The Price of Loyalty]
Inside the command tent, the atmosphere was suffocating. Silas, Elena, and the three Chiefs of the Highlands sat around a map.
"The fortress is impregnable," Chief Kael spat, his aura a Stubborn Brown. "Three layers of enchanted stone. Cannons that can melt a horse at half a mile. We will lose half our men before we touch the gate."
"Then we don't touch the gate," Alexander said, leaning over the map. He looked at Sokolov, who had been uncharacteristically silent. "Sokolov, what is the 'Architecture of Mercy' in Kastel-Gora?"
The lawyer adjusted his spectacles, his aura a Sharp, Analytical Indigo. "The fortress has a flaw, Alexander. It was built atop the old sulfur mines. The waste pipes run directly under the primary magazine. But they are guarded by 'Ghouls'—men the Empire has turned into mindless cannibals through chemical torture."
"I will lead the breach," Silas grunted, his hand instinctively going to his axe.
"No," Alexander said, his Silver Aura flaring with a sudden, sharp intensity. "Silas, you lead the main charge at the gates. You will be the distraction. You must make them believe we are as foolish as they think we are. You must endure their fire so I can deliver the killing blow."
Silas looked Alexander in the eye. He saw the cold calculation. He knew Alexander was using his men as bait.
"The price of a revolution is always paid in the blood of the brave," Alexander said, placing a heavy hand on Silas's shoulder. "I am not asking you to die. I am asking you to be the anvil. I will be the hammer."
"And the Ghouls?" Elena asked, her voice trembling.
Alexander pulled a small vial of dark fluid from his belt—a gift from the Guild of Mechanics he had 'persuaded' earlier.
"To kill a monster, one must understand its hunger," Alexander whispered. "I am going into the sewers. Alone. If I do not return, the army is yours, Elena. Burn the world in my name."
"Alexander..." she started.
"Don't," he cut her off, his eyes softening for a micro-second before turning back into stone. "Pity is the poison of kings. I am a Raven. I don't need prayers. I need a massacre."
[The Descent]
As the first cannons of Kastel-Gora began to thunder in the distance, signaling the start of Silas's sacrificial charge, Alexander Milov lowered himself into the dark, stinking bowels of the earth.
The sewers were a labyrinth of filth and madness. Through his Aura Vision, he saw them—hundreds of Sickly, Pulsing Yellow auras crawling along the ceilings. The Ghouls. They weren't men; they were hunger given flesh.
He drew his sword, the silver light reflecting off the sewage-slicked walls.
"Come then," he whispered to the shadows, his aura becoming a Void of Pure Silence. "I have been to a deeper hell than this. You are merely the gatekeepers of a world I intend to burn."